


Yellow Gorse

by Chelidona (Hobbity)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gorgeous setting for gorgeous men, Lake District, Letters, M/M, Photoset challenge, Pining, Regrets, cameos by Tauriel and Ori, fili and kili are not related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7447321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbity/pseuds/Chelidona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kíli follows Fíli to the Lake District to make up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Gorse

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the photoset challenge ([photoset 2](http://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/146165750581/the-photosets-challenge-set-02-other#notes)) from gatheringFiKi on tumblr. I really didn't have time to write, but I couldn't resist ... it evolved into something that doesn't quite fit the photoset anymore, but I like it anyway :)

Soft light filtered through the window, turning the specks of dust flying around the room into golden glitter. The little pot of succulents on the windowsill glowed and blotted out the water spots marring the wood of the sill. Kíli had his back towards the window, trying to block out the light. He sat cross-legged on his bed, which took up most of the room, and was sorting through stacks of sheet music. 

 

He would not need all this. Typically he would play without any notes. He thumped through his last sheet protectors, feeling his pulse quickening. These were the songs he had played for Fíli. One year ago now, they had sat in this very room, on the bed. Kíli playing the guitar and Fíli scribbling away, as he always was. Fíli had always claimed to be inspired by Kíli’s music. They had spent hours just like that. Kíli playing, Fíli scribbling.

Back in the present, there was no Fíli, just the sound of his mother in the kitchen emptying the cupboards.

The last folder seemed thicker than the others did. Paper stuck out of the sheet music, filled with Fíli’s neat handwriting. With trembling fingers, Kíli pulled the first one out.

 

_He crashed into my life with the force of the Irish Sea. Stormy and passionate waves throwing themselves against the solid stone that is I. Eroding the coastline, taking parts of me to stay with him, leaving his traces all over me._

 

Last year. On this bed. He had played a little tune inspired by the Irish Sea. Fíli must have written this as he played. It was such a wistful tune, and he wondered if Fíli had sensed that Kíli would fail him. He had no doubt that “he” was Kíli himself.

 

He pulled out the next sheet of paper, closing his eyes but then peeking.

 

_I never liked Whiskey before I met him. Whiskey. Usquebaugh. Only Irish Whiskey. It’s milder. Nearly sweet but not quite. Like him. He transforms everything around him, imbues it with so much passion._

 

They had had whisky on the bed. Irish Whiskey. Kíli always had a bottle ready. Now his last bottle and his glasses were in a cardboard box, already stowed in his mam’s van.

 

There were more of Fíli’s notes, most longer than those two snippets. He shouldn’t pry. He resolutely pulled out all the sheet music from that folder. He wouldn’t throw any of those notes away. Never.

 

His mother sent him to get both of them some sandwiches for dinner. It was still light out, and his t-shirt clung to him in awkward spots. Kíli pulled out his phone and almost without looking at it, he dialled Fíli’s number. Only to disrupt a grumpy stranger’s day. Fíli must have changed the number.

 

On his way back from the Prêt, Kíli pulled out the phone again. There was another number saved in his phone he hadn’t deleted since last summer. Ori, he could tell, was tempted to disconnect as soon as he heard the name, so Kíli rushed to explain that he was moving back to Ireland and had found some of Fíli’s stuff. The following awkward conversation revealed, against Ori’s design, that Fíli was not actually in London. Kíli ignored Ori’s instructions of sending the stuff to Ori’s place.

 

Fíli must already have left for the Lake District. He went there every summer. He was there, last year when Kíli had fallen into bed with Tauriel. Kíli had been supposed to join Fíli later. And he would have, had it not turned out that Tauriel was friends with Legolas, who knew Gimli, who was Fíli’s cousin. London was not supposed to be this small.

 

His ears still rang from the scolding he got from Tauriel, who had no idea that Kíli had a boyfriend. But more than that he remembered the text message he received from Fíli. “I know.” That was all. Fíli didn’t react when Kíli tried to contact him.

 

Last year, Kíli had stayed in London. Ignoring a red traffic light, Kíli weaved his way through honking cars, just avoiding to be hit by a cab. He had made a decision. This year, he would go up to Dale and deliver Fíli’s notes to him. His mother could drive his stuff to Dublin without him.

 

He had only taken his guitar and a light duffel bag. His mother had been understanding. It would be no problem for her to get his stuff back on her own. He left all the furniture for the next occupant of the flat, an architecture student from Poland.

Kíli stared at the landscape. They had left London Euston on time, pulling away from the polished platform and racing along dirty brick walls. Kíli stared at them, the monotonous walls and the puffing and rumbling of the train counteracting the effects of the coffee he was sipping. Brick walls gave way to low brick buildings. They had left Euston 3 minutes ago, and Kíli was beginning to doubt his decision. Scraggly vegetation preceded yet another tunnel. 4 minutes into the journey, Kíli had finished his coffee. They were in yet another tunnel. This was going to be an endless trip.

He took out a sheet of paper. Fíli didn’t want to talk to him, so he would just have to write a letter to go with the notes.

_Fíli. I found those notes when I tidied my room. I am moving back to Dublin. Before I leave England …_

Kíli paused. What could he say? How sorry he was? How would Fíli ever believe him?

_… I wanted to say how sorry I am. I messed up the best thing that happened to me. Ever. I am not coming to Dale to stalk you. I wanted to bring them back personally. And I needed to see the place you love so much. You talked to me about the Cumbrian mountains and the meres until I loved them too. I wanted to see them with you, but because I was a bastard, I have to do it alone._

 

Three hours later, he got out at Windermere, the railway station closest to Dale. Kíli looked towards the Cumbrian Alps. Somewhere beyond there was Dale. And somewhere outside Dale was Fíli in the little holiday home his grandfather had built. Kíli ignored the posters advertising the charms of the Lake District. He was not here to sightsee. A friendly, wizened lady pointed him towards the stop for the bus to Keswick, which passed through Dale.

He used the time he waited for the bus to arrive to look up B&B’s near Dale. There was only one. But when he called, they actually got a free room. It had to be a sign. Kíli was meant to go to Dale. He bought a sandwich at Boots not because he was hungry but because he needed something to occupy himself with.

 

The landscape around Dale was a study in contrast. Fields flowed around the village, pale green in the sun and framed by rugged slopes. Naked stone, heath and stubborn little forests clung to the mountains.

 

Dale itself looked like it had been built as a tourist attraction and just like the pictures Fíli had shown him. A tiny village of houses built from the dark, local rocks, squatting in a small valley. He recognised the fierce church from Fíli’s pictures, more a small castle than a house of God. And its surrounding lush garden, tended by a passionate vicar.

 

Before he went to the B&B he had to find Fíli’s house. He had to. He could not allow himself to ask any locals, this was something he had to do to prove that he had actually listened when Fíli rambled about his favourite spot in the world. He found the small road leading away from Dale, following the curve of the mountain.

 

After a seemingly endless amount of turns, the road opened to a small wooden cottage hidden behind a large outcropping of stone. Patches of gorse surrounded the property, building a natural fence and overgrowing the crumbling stone walls where they met. The wooden cottage seemed oddly out of place in an area noted for its beautiful stone houses. Stone was everywhere in the Lake District, but Fíli’s grandfather had built his house with wood. Fíli spent weeks every summer to make repairs.

 

The sound of gorse seed popping was his warning before a seed bounced off his shoulder. He brushed it off and straightened. He would not turn away now.

 

Shadowed by a large elm tree, the porch was cluttered with metal buckets, a ladder, gardening tools and bits and bobs. Neat while messy, Fíli’s unique blend.

 

Kíli walked up the creaking steps to the porch. He could see a quick movement in the window. Fíli must be aware of his presence. The door remained locked. Kíli hadn’t expected anything else, and he didn’t knock. He took the folder with Fíli’s notes out of his back and put it on one of the steps of the ladder, with his letter on top. On his way here, he had just added to his letter that he was staying at the local B&B for a few days. The rest would be up to Fíli. He hoped Fíli would get in contact. But he would understand if he didn’t.

 

The B&B was run by an elderly couple, who tutted over the fact that Kíli had gone for a walk before unloading his luggage. From the window of his small room, he looked uphill. To where Fíli was. Did he read the letter? Did he keep the notes? Were they painful to him? As painful as they had been to Kíli? The sun was setting. Kíli closed the curtains, careful not to hit the little flower in the shallow bowl of succulents. He turned to his bed.

The picture of an old leather bag laying on a hardwood floor dominated one wall. Next to the leather bag was an antiquated camera. The picture had been taken by Fíli, it showed his grandfather’s old bag and camera. Kíli had seen the camera in London, where Fíli kept it.

Over the bed was a cross stitch somebody had done. In neat letters, it said: “They say if you dream a thing more than once it’s sure to come true.”

He dreamt of being back in Fíli’s arms that night. Not for the first time.

 

Kíli was woken up in the morning by the smells of a fried breakfast and a ray of sunlight shooting through the gap in the curtains.

 

After breakfast, he shouldered his guitar. He had to make the best out of being in the Lake District. And distract himself from Fíli. It was hard when the very hills seemed to sing Fíli’s name.

 

He collided with the post lady on his way out and muttered a small apology. She didn’t seem to mind. But Kíli had just walked a few metres when he was called back by the landlady, waving a thick envelope.

 

The landlady and the post lady looked curious. Kíli had booked the room just the previous afternoon and already there was a letter for him? Kíli went to his room to read in solitude.

 

When he opened the letter, Fíli’s old notes tumbled out. Kíli went through them until he found a new note.

 

_Kíli. Did you mean to reopen old wounds? Those notes were about my love for you. Why did you not just throw them away? I do not want them._

 

Kíli sat on the bed, fingers trembling as he reread the note and then read the old ones.

He went for his planned walk, barely noticing the landscape. His thoughts were full of Fíli. Outside Dale, he found a huge elm tree providing shade and shelter from the sun. He leant against its rough bark and took his guitar out of its case.

Playing sad tunes calmed him down. He pulled paper out of the guitar cases’ pocket and began to write.

 

_I did not read all of the notes, and I am sorry if they brought you pain. I felt they didn’t belong to me, and your writing is too beautiful to be thrown away. If you do not want them, I will keep them and treasure them. I never did deserve your love._

 

He put his guitar back and slowly walked down a little path circling the village until he was on the road back to Fíli’s house. He put the letter in the same spot as the previous day.

 

The lunch in the pub tasted stale.

 

The next morning he waited for the post lady to arrive. She had another letter for him. A slim envelope this time.

 

_Everybody deserves love. You were not ready for it. Keep the notes if you like._

 

Kíli hiked up to Fíli’s house again to leave his response. This time, he found a large stone ready to weigh down his letter on the ladder.

 

_Thank you. I was scared and not ready. But it is not about me. I hurt you. I would have come here and not told you about it._

 

The next morning, the landlady remarked that it was curious that a young man such as he received so many letters. Kíli thought it was curious that Fíli actually drove down to the post office way down in Grasmere every day to post a letter to him.

 

_I think you would have. You were immature but not a liar. Could you really have stayed here with me and not shown any guilt?_

 

That letter made Kíli pause. He sat under the elm, strumming his guitar for hours before he penned a very short reply.

 

_I hope not. I hope I would have confessed to you._

 

This time, there was a flask with hot tea waiting for him on the table and another letter for him to take. He sat down to read it immediately.

 

_I have been thinking since I mailed the last letter. I need to let you know that I was at fault too. I pushed you into a steady relationship when I could feel you weren’t ready. I made plans for the future when I knew that you were not ready to even think about the next week._

 

Even though it felt odd, Kíli sat down on the steps and wrote an answer then and there. Fíli might be watching from the windows. Or not. It was a longer letter than any of the others, his jumbled thoughts on why it wasn’t Fíli’s fault and how Fíli had offered him something invaluable.

 

The next morning, at breakfast, there was a letter waiting for him again. Fíli explaining why it wasn't all Kíli's fault. And Kíli did his daily trek to deliver his answer. They wrote about their individual guilt. Kíli wrote about feeling freed when he and Tauriel had sex, how good she made him feel, but how his guilt came crashing down when Fíli called the next day. How he knew that Fíli was the one only too late.

 

Fíli wrote how frozen and abandoned he had felt, alone in his remote cottage, when Gímli had called to tell him. How he had already readied the sheets for Kíli and had already stocked up on Kíli’s favourite food for which he had needed to drive to Windermere. How glad he was now to have answers.

 

Then Kíli asked how Fíli’s projects were going. Fíli was a freelancer - a writer, photographer and designer. His volumes of poetry mixed with photography and artwork were popular enough to get his name into the world of art. Fíli’s answer was a long letter, detailing his plans for an exhibition in Windermere.

 

On the seventh day, there was no letter. Kíli was disappointed until he went outside with his guitar. Under the elm tree, he found another letter.

 

_I am going for a hike today. I will wait until 10 am behind the church._

 

Kíli looked at his phone and cursed. 9:50. If he hurried, he would just make it on time. But his knees were weak at the prospect of seeing Fíli.

 

When he came to the appointed spot, Fíli stood there as if sprung from Kíli’s fondest memories. The harsh midday light was kind to Fíli, emphasising every angle and every curve. Hair in a gorgeous mess that looked like Fíli had attempted to tame it in a bun but had given up with only halfway through. Camera case slung over his shoulder. Heavy boots on his short legs, looking even more massive because Fíli was wearing shorts. The boots were custom made, Kíli’s brain supplied. Fíli’s calves were too massive for regular boots to fit, their shaft was inevitably too tight.

Fíli just smirked and cocked his head. No words escaped Kíli, he could only stare. He wanted to say how sorry he was, how he had missed Fíli, how beautiful Fíli was, but he couldn’t find the words.

 

He realised that Fíli had started walking up the path, and he followed, stumbling over a rock. Carrying a guitar was not the most convenient bit of gear on a hiking trail. It was a hot day. The musty, coconutty smell of the yellow gorse followed them as they made their way up. Their prickles caught his trousers more than once, and he could see them scratching Fíli’s exposed calves. The blond ignored it.

 

They stopped several times for Fíli to take pictures of the scenery. Sometimes he took pictures of rocks. Kíli began to relax. No words were spoken between them. Clouds had moved in front of the sun, dappling the valley in shadows interspersed with rays of sunshine. A breeze was coming down the mountain, soothing skin that was heated in the sun. Kíli could see a group of tourists moving along the valley, but up here they were alone.

 

As they reached the top, Fíli turned towards him and lifted his camera up, a question in his eyes. Kíli nodded, and Fíli took a picture. And another. A laugh escaped Kíli’s throat as he kept posing and Fíli kept taking pictures from every angle.

 

Once the camera was stowed, they shared a bottle of water and sandwiches Fíli had brought along. They sat on two separate rocks, taking in the view.

 

Fíli broke the silence.

“Thank you for coming along.”

Kíli’s heart stopped for a moment.

“How could I not.”

Fíli looked at him. The wind was picking up, ruffling their hair. Vague voices could be heard, of other people coming up.

 

Fíli took Kíli’s hand and led him down another path, half hidden. The trail disappeared a few metres down, but Fíli knew his way. His grip on Kíli’s hand remained firm. There were no more stops for pictures.

He led them straight to his house, approaching it from behind. After squeezing through a gap between the gorse, they bypassed a pile of old timber and clumps of dried weed.

 

Fíli had bought berries the day before and suggested they make berry crumble. Kíli was still off kilter. He prepared the berries while Fíli prepared the dough. They were silent as they worked. Kíli could still feel the warmth of Fíli’s hand around his.

 

When the crumble was in the oven, Fíli looked up at him. There was a suggestion of shyness in the curve of his lips and around his eyes.

“Play for me?”

This was something he could do. Kíli unpacked his guitar and began to play. Songs of sadness, and songs of longing. He played them by heart, some of them improvised. His eyes never left Fíli, who was leaning against the wall opposite him, observing him with a small smile. Did Fíli understand these tunes were about him? The pain Kíli had felt when he lost Fíli?

 

The plaintive tunes were interrupted by the shrill bell of Fíli’s old timer. The blond hurried into the kitchen and pulled the crumble out of the oven, donning two browned oven mitts.

The smell of the hot berries and toasted oats imbued the entire room when Fíli carried it out.

 

Kíli couldn’t help but compliment Fíli after every bite. Fíli deflected the compliments, claiming that the ripeness of the berries was to thank not him. Both their lips were dyed in a dark red when they finished. Kíli carried the plates into the kitchen, and they started the washing up together.

 

“Are we ready now?” Fíli asked quietly, seemingly focused on drying the plate in his hand.

“Yes,” Kíli breathed, lifting his hand up to gently caress Fíli’s shoulder. “Yes.”

“Good.” Fíli put the plate down carefully and turned to face Kíli. “Good.”

Their lips met in a soft kiss. Kíli’s put his hands lightly on Fíli’s waist, barely touching, just enough to know that this wasn’t a dream.

 

The last traces of daylight showed Kíli the way back to the B&B. In the morning he would be back with his bag. The guitar was still leaning against Fíli’s living room wall.

He had to go to Dublin in another week. Enough time to make some magic. Enough time to know that they would make this work.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments would absolutely make my day. You can find me on [tumblr](http://chelidona.tumblr.com/)


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